Tag Archives: yoga

Thank God for That!

Posted on by
Reply

Photobucket
Today, I wanted to try something a little bit different and get up earlier, tackle the day and feel victorious. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions. To wit: I was unable to get myself out of bed this morning until the doorbell rang. I jumped up actually feeling grateful for the disturbance, figuring I would get a bit of a head-start. I buzzed the door open, assuming it was the mailman and was met with two Jehova’s Witnesses instead. Just great. “We are here to bring good news!” said one of the two ladies “may I read you something from the scriptures?” figuring there couldn’t be any harm in that I said go ahead. I was wearing my pyjamas, completely disheveled and blurry-eyed and this woman wanted to discuss theology with me. “What do you think about God? Do you think he is a he’s described in the bible?”. I said while I believe in God, mine is a private kind of spirituality and more than anything I feel there is a force of the universe that some religious groups like to maintain is God and which they then make in their own projected images. Then she showed me an image from their small magazine which looked like a green park with lots of smiling people in it. “Do you know what this is?” she aked me. No I didn’t. “That’s what heaven looks like see? And did you notice? There aren’t any old people in heaven. Everybody is young and happy”. I was going to say something about ageism and ignorance being bliss but I let that one slide. When they realized I wasn’t being receptive, they left after a long while, but not before offering to come again. That visit got me down though I can’t say why exactly. I was trying to imagine afterwards what this woman’s life must be like and wondering if every discussion around the dinner table and any casual exchange with her husband, kids, co-workers and friends always involved God and the scriptures and I concluded that depressingly enough, that was probably the case, yes. She just had that crazy God worshiper gleam in her eyes.

Then, thinking I’d make myself useful, I decided to empty that box that had been sent back to me from the office once and for all and be done with it. But no sooner had I begun that task that I thought “after 5 years of devoted service, hard work and insanity, this is all that I have to show for it”. There were some calling cards and various promos from illustrators and photographers, some stupid award for having made a certain amount of sales on a specific title (not the kind of thing I give a flying &%$# about, believe me) and then a bunch of envelopes, adressed to me in my former capacity as art director. By then it was too late to just stop and back away, but the damage was done. I was pulled into the vortex of negativity, thinking I would never be considered a VIP again, never get to choose who to work with again, never benefit from special perks and extras, never in fact be anyone of any consequence at all. I think that way because I’m not sure I have it in me to build myself up again into that kind of person. It’s a matter of energy as much as of desire, two things I am now woefully lacking in.

By then I wanted to drag myself back to bed, but seeing it was only just past noon or so, determined not to sleep until a decent bed-time. It was beautiful outside, but I had no energy at all to do a thing about it. In fact, that’s usually the case on most days, and this lack of energy is actually felt in every inch of my body and translated into pain. One would think that with all the medication I take, things would look a bit more encouraging somehow and some of the burden would lift, right? I feel like Lithium just kills my soul.

The one thing I’ve been holding on to all day is that tomorrow morning, I will do the first in a series of yoga sessions with my landlady who has offered to trade off a bit of French tutoring for some yoga stretches which I know my body, mind and soul desperately need. I knew that would mean early sessions when she offered, which would probably force me to adopt a more sane schedule, all of which are good things, but I emailed J today telling her I’m very nervous about sleeping right through the alarm clock in the morning and she nicely responded that if that happens, there will always be other sessions to join in.

Yep, so tomorrow’s another day. Thank God for that. (Amen)

She craved pomegranates

Posted on by
Reply

A short story by Smiler

“Before you all go, I’d like to leave you with a few words. I’m sure most of you have seen the headlines about Saddam Hussein’s hanging today” said the yoga instructor “this kind of news brings up all kinds of conflicting emotions, which is understandable. I want you to know that you’ve done the right thing by coming here today, because a regular yoga practice gives us the proper flexibility of mind and body to cope with the challenges we are faced with in life. Thank you for being here today. Namaste.”

This particluar instructor had a way of drawing out emotions Anna didn’t know she had, and at the end of the grueling ninety minute session, as they had lain down in corpse pose, Anna had been surprised to feel tears flowing freely down the sides of her face. She couldn’t understand why she felt so exhausted when she changed back into her clothes, and at that moment she had wanted nothing more than to go home and take a nap, but she decided she needed to go to the grocery store first. She had developed an insatiable craving for pomegranates and she was eating them every day the way some people eat apples, which was a good thing, she thought, except for the fact that they were tricky to eat without staining counters, fingers, and clothes with that wonderfully tart crimson juice which somehow sprayed everywhere. But that was part of the appeal of them: the inherent risks when indulging in such a decadent habit. It couldn’t be called a guilty pleasure because Anna didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it. After all, pomegranates were considered to be some kind of wonder food and were meant to help her live a long and healthy life.

Anna threw on her coat, slipped on her boots, hat and gloves, then stepped outside in the frigid cold for a brisk walk to the grocery store. Once there, she picked the firmest looking fruit, along with other wholesome selections; arugula, pine nuts, Romano cheese, balsamic vinegar. Once she got going, she kept adding more and more food to her cart. When am I going to eat all this stuff? She wondered. Eating wasn’t one of Anna’s greatest priorities. But today she decided she’d make herself a nutritious lunch when she got home, in the spirit of the health and well-being the yoga class was meant to provide. As she was leaving the grocery store laden with her bags, Anna was assailed by the newspaper headlines about Saddam Hussein again. He’d been hanged that very same day, and of course it had been all over the news. Anna didn’t like the news very much. She mostly found them depressing. She zipped up her coat and stepped out to the cold again.

The sidewalks were treacherous – there was a layer of ice concealed under the slush and there were people slipping and falling everywhere. She considered taking a cab as she normally would in these circumstances – there were dozens of them driving by on this busy commercial artery. She decided she’d save herself a few bucks and do what most folks do, which is NOT take a cab almost every single day, several times a day. Her grocery bags weighed on her, but she knew she was privileged to be able to afford eating pomegranates whenever the craving struck, and bring them home by taxi, no less. So much indulgence she repeated to herself for the umpteenth time. The bags were heavy but still manageable, so she opted to take the subway instead.

She gingerly made her way along the icy downtown sidewalks. With her fur-trimmed hood over her head covering half her face, she looked like an eskimo, or someone out on an arctic expedition. A warm rush of air sucked her into the subway entrance. Three flights down, the underground station was overheated as usual. She only had two stops to go, but as she waited for the metro, Anna was quickly growing restless. She did not want to put her bags down on the ground; she preferred the temporary discomfort of it rather than laying down her groceries on what she could only imagine was the most vile kind of dirt. She transfered all her bags to one hand, then took off her hat and unzipped her coat with the other. She was regretting not taking a taxi after all. Anna hated everything about the subway. She hated the way it looked, the way it smelled, and she especially abhorred that inescapable subway lighting. She found everyone looked particularly ugly and vaguely deranged in that overhead dim grey light. The train arrived. She was glad to find a free seat for her to put her heavy bags down, even if only for a short ride.

She exited the train at her station and made a beeline for the escalator, when she saw a morbidly obese woman pushing a stroller and just about to step onto it. There was a little girl by her side who was made to look even more minuscule, no larger than a doll, next to her mother. Anna was hoping she’d squeeze by so she could bound up the steps as she liked to do, but she arrived a few seconds too late, and now the small family was blocking the whole width of the escalator. Anna cursed the woman silently. She took in the little girl—who was all of three years old if that—she was holding a tattered and dirty rag doll too close to the ground. Anna moved onto the mother, detailing the turquoise sweatpants, pastel small print flower shirt, her pasty face and bloated features, her dirty brown hair tied in a low ponytail with wisps or errant hairs pulled behind her ears. She couldn’t help but think very unkind thoughts about this gigantic woman, who must have been five times Anna’s size. She couldn’t imagine why a person would let themselves go like that, and she also felt badly about her own mean-spiritedness.

They all got off the escalator and reached a wide staircase which was divided in two by a banister. It was a relatively short flight of stairs, but the woman, pulling up the baby in that huge stroller—which was also filled with bags and coats—was obviously having a difficult time of it. Anna had followed the little girl on the other side of the staircase and she now sincerely wished her hands hadn’t been so full, because it was clear the other woman needed help. She was considering putting down her heavy bags to lend a hand when the little girl turned and pointed at Anna and cried out “mommy, why won’t the lady help us?” At which the woman, looking at Anna with a kind smile, responded “because her hands are already full sweetie”. Immediately Anna replied: “I’ll put down these bags and come over to help you if you like”. And to herself: I’m a complete shit. Why don’t I just get over there and help her already?

A midlle-aged woman appeared suddenly and started hurriedly down the staircase. She was dressed in black and her gaunt frame seemed lost in her clothes; black leather jacket, dark faded jeans, chunky black boots. Her grey hair was cropped very short, which somehow made her angular face seem particularly stern. When she’d reached our little group halfway down the steps, she abruptly stopped in front of the little girl, glared at the child and barked: “Get out of my way!”. The staircase was wide enough to accommodate two adults side by side and she could very well have stepped aside and continued on her way down.“I said get out of my way kid! Scoot!” Anna, who had continued up a couple of steps, froze and turned around to witness the scene. The little girl was dumbstruck. She looked up at the woman with wide eyes, her little mouth agape. “Get the fuck out of my way, step aside I said!” the woman snapped again. At this the mother spoke up and said “Come on now, can’t you see she’s just a little girl?” “I don’t care, she’s in my way” the older woman barked back. ” She’s just three years old, just give her a break, she doesn’t understand, come on, just let her get up the stairs” the mother implored her again, all the while struggling to up hold the baby carriage which was leaning on the stairs at a precarious angle. She was visibly straining and Anna now had no way to get to her without rushing past this vile woman and possibly making the situation worse. She was all too clearly mentally unstable and Anna wanted to avoid a physical altercation. And still the woman stood there and now wearing a disturbed grin on her face said “She’s in my way, and I want her OUT of my way NOW”.

This was too much. She had gone too far and Anna was now strongly tempted to teach that nasty woman a lesson in common decency. She thought about her pomegranates and considered they might make very useful projectiles, but she repressed the urge to attack her and instead she thundered: “Just leave her alone lady, she’s just a child for heaven’s sake!” surprising herself with the force of her own voice. The little girl was completely petrified as she stood there way below the lady—looking up at what must have been to her a scary old witch—her eyes wide and uncomprehending. Anna knew something had to be done to break the standoff. She stepped back down the few stairs that were separating her and the child, passing the old witch on the way. She gently grabbed her little girl’s hand, said “Come up the stairs with me. I’ll take care of you. That is a very bad woman” and she glared at the stranger who completely ignored her and simply continued along her way. The little girl, still in a daze, followed Anna, and once they’d all reached the top of the stairs, the mother thanked Anna warmly and she was off by herself again. The entire scene had happened in less than ninety seconds, but somehow Anna felt she had been on a very long and perilous journey.

There were more escalators to take to reach street level, and as Anna continued on with a heavy heart, she began to cry big heavy tears. She was wearing large sunglasses which covered a good portion of her face, so she felt relatively safe in her anonymity and the knowledge she wasn’t making a spectacle of herself in public. She was upset about what had just taken place, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of the injustice of it, or frustration about how evil and stupid some people were, or if it was because she felt helpless to actually DO anything for this poor mother and her children. I’m such a shit! But then I DID help in some small way, and why do I have to be so hard on myself all the time? What more was I supposed to do? Maybe it was the voice of that little girl, wise beyond her years, asking “mommy, why won’t the lady help us?” still resonating in Anna’s ears. It reminded Anna of when she herself had been a little girl—seeing her own mother straining and working so hard, not a soul there to help, least of all Anna because she’d been too small to understand or be of any help… As she dwelt on what had just taken place she wondered“What kind of scars will that incident leave on that little girl’s three year old mind?”

There was a short walk from the subway station to Anna’s house. She cried all the way home. She cried walking up her staircase and she was crying still now as she was reflecting on all this, standing in her kitchen and placing the pomegranates in a pretty bowl. An unbearable sadness weighed down on her.

“They killed Saddam Hussein today” she finally concluded “but it still doesn’t make the world a better place.”
Painting: Justin Clayton

On Compassion

Posted on by
Reply

Adapted from a DailyOm article,

In The Presence Of Difficulty

Compassion is the ability to see the deep connectedness between ourselves and others. True compassion recognizes that all the boundaries we perceive between ourselves and others are an illusion. When we first begin to practice compassion, this very deep level of understanding may elude us, but if we start where we are, we will eventually feel our way toward it. We move closer to it every time we see past our own concerns to accommodate others. As with any skill, our compassion grows most in the presence of difficulty.

We can practice small acts of compassion every day, when our loved ones are short-tempered or another driver cuts us off in traffic. We can extend our forgiveness by trying to understand their point of view; we know how it is to feel stressed out or irritable. The practice of compassion becomes more difficult when we find ourselves unable to understand the actions of the person who offends us. These are the situations that ask us to look more deeply into ourselves, into parts of our psyches that we may want to deny, parts that we have repressed because society has labeled them bad or wrong. For example, acts of violence are often well beyond anything we ourselves have perpetuated, so when we are on the receiving end of such acts, we are often at a loss. This is where the real potential for growth begins, because we are called to shine a light inside ourselves and take responsibility for what we have disowned. It is at this juncture that we have the opportunity to transform from within.

Aparigraha

Posted on by
Reply

The mark of a moderate woman is freedom
from her own ideas. —Lao Tzu

“Aparigraha, or nonpossessiveness and nonhoarding, is the fifth of the yamas—or moral restraints—on the eight-limb path of Yoga*. Aparigraha is about letting go. The Yoga Sutras advise us not to waste any energy holding on to that which is not really ours in the first place. Aparigraha can apply to our own thinking. Attachment to our thoughts is as wasteful as our attachment to political ideology, to relationships, or to our piles of stuff. Aparigraha is also about letting go of our most cherished pain-producing beliefs. It is about the end of all attachment: letting go of our fears, letting go of our desires, becoming free.

Aparigraha advises us to travel light while on the spiritual path. We must let go of the old to make room for the new; we must grieve our dead and then let go in order to love the living. Much of the work we do with aparigraha concerns the obvious; a closet full of old clothes which needs emptying to accomodate other things, new colleagues at work replacing our old friends and workmates. As difficult as these passings are, they have the advantage of being directly in front of us. All that is required is yet another level of surrender, a leap of faith.

More difficult is the aspect of aparigraha that concerns worn-out beliefs. Many of the basic assumptions that guide our daily choices are unconscious, unseen. We have all been progammed, sometimes intentionally, sometimes unintentionally, to an extend that most of us are only vaguely aware of. Of equal power are our own beliefs, carried over from previous periods in our lives, previous life situations. Collectivelly, the old thoughts and ideas create an energy that robs us of the moment. Aparigraha invites us to walk away from yesterday’s outdated beliefs. Just as we take boxes of our old clothing to the Salvation Army, we can begin shedding our old ideas. We can begin to trust our perceptions of the truth in the moment. There is a power in this process, an unfettering of the mind and the spirit. We can begin to wear our beliefs like a loose garment. We can experience the lightness that comes from the freedom from our own ideas.”

—Adapted from “Reflections from the Mat: Daily Reflections on the Path of Yoga” by Rolf Gates.

* The Eight-Limb Path of Yoga includes to following:
1. Yamas (the five moral restraints)
2. Niyamas (the five observances)
3. Asana (postures)
4. Pranayama (mindful breathing)
5. Pratyahara (turning inward)
6. Dharana (concentration)
7. Dhyana (meditation)
8. Samadhi (union of the self with object of meditation)

Train Nº69

Posted on by
Reply

Train Nº69
A short story by Smiler

She had originally planned to return to Montreal the previous day via train Nº71. But then there’d been that last minute brunch invitation with a consultant who also happened to be a VIP, so she’d ended up on the Monday train instead, train Nº69. She’d had to rush from her friend’s place in Brooklyn to make it on time. She’d lucked out and gotten an especially friendly cab driver. His cab was neither clean nor especially comfortable, but she quickly learned he was a philosopher and also happened to be Muslim and their conversation made her forget that she was trying to beat the clock. When they arrived, she realized she’d gotten to Penn station early and she gave the driver a big fat tip just for being a decent human being.

Tara sat on the train gathering her thoughts while the last of the passengers found their seats. It seemed to her an incredible coincidence for her to be travelling on Amtrak train Nº69. She was a Cancer with a Virgo rising and ’69 was her birth year and she was prone to giving lots of importance to small details like that. She felt sure it was a sign and wondered what kind of surprises were ahead.

Hearing children’s voices, she leaned over to see what they looked like. They were at the other end of the car, two pretty little girls with dark hair, dressed in pinks and reds, apparently traveling with their mother. The smaller one must’ve been around four or five, and when she noticed Tara looking at her she gave her a sweet smile and put her hand up in a tentative wave gesture, her fingers making a gentle scratching motion. Tara made a mental note to ask them mother to take pictures of those lovely girls later on in the trip.

A few minutes later, a conductor made his way up the aisle. She didn’t take notice of him until he turned around to make his way back, walking towards her. She recognized him instantly. “PETE, is that YOU?!?” Upon hearing his name, Pete’s face lit up and he beamed his radiant smile. “Taaarrraaaaaa”, he thundered, and then he stood there staring at her, grinning wide and blinking a little, visibly pleased. He was wearing his work uniform, looking spiffy in his blue suit and cap. Pete had always had an imposing stature, but now she noticed he’d developed a visible paunch over the years. Tara couldn’t remember just how long it had been since they had seen each other last. A few seconds went by and still neither of them had said anything. Pete seemed shocked and happy to see her so unexpectedly. Tara, while pleasantly surprised, wasn’t quite so surprised. There had been too many coincidences happening lately.

Pete broke the silence:
-“S’great to see you Tara, you look amazing as always – you headed back home then?”.
-“Yep”, she said “I see you’re still working the train”.
-“Yup! It’s a good stable job” Pete replied. “Listen, I gotta go get some paperwork in order right now, but… I’m sure we’ll be runnin’ into each other during the trip. There’ll be plenty of time to catch up.”.
-“Where are your headquarters?” she asked, which ellicited an even larger grin from Pete, if that was even possible.
-“I’m in the dining cart. Don’t be shy, and come over for a visit will ya!” he said and took his leave.

The train started to roll. Since she had both seats to herself and a good ten hour ride ahead of her, she decided to get comfortable and spread her things out. She always travelled with piles of things, almost  like some sort of urban gypsy; this time she had several books, two apples, a stack of magazines, juice, water, packets of nuts, a few notebooks, her iPod, a 35 mm camera. She liked to keep busy, or at least, occupy her mind at all times. She sparked up a conversation in French with her neighbouring travel companions – two young French business students who didn’t speak a word of English and were travelling through North America for the first time. She felt happy, but also tired from all the excitement of her trip. New York had been—as New York always was—filled with action and interesting encounters and she’d barely slept during her week there. Sam had taken her to so many cocktail parties in Manhattan, and there’d been all these consultants to meet, and they’d taken so many photos, and there’d been that lovely meal at Bar Tabac and endless conversations, many of which had turned into heated debates. Tara had known Sam for a good decade. It had been a platonic relationship since the beginning, but with their personalities, they tended to clash often. She remembered now that Sam had given her an open invitation to sail on his 90 ft schooner. While the idea sounded lovely, she wondered if it was wise to accept the invitation. “The elements are likely to react to our presence and we’ll probably end up hitting great big storms and thunder and lightning once we hit ocean waters?” she had thought to herself when he’d mentioned it. Presently, she stretched out her legs across the seats, and as the train rumbled on, she put on soothing electronic music on her iPod and fell asleep almost instantly. She woke up about an hour later. She was hungry and thirsty. She remembered Pete, and she decided to go join him in the dining cart. Again, Pete smiled wide as soon as she made her apparition. She noticed he was wearing a baseball cap this time as he liked to do, instead of the required conductor’s hat. They started chatting and catching up on old times:

-“So how long’s it been? Five years?” she asked
-“Nah nah, it’s gotta be more than that, I’ve been sober for six”.
-“Is that so? That’s amazing Pete, I’m so happy for you”
-“Yeeeaaahhh, it was that or… well nuthin’ basically. Had’ta quit drinkin’ or lose evertything. I got a home now and my two daughters livin’ with me.”
-“Pete! That’s really great! I often wondered what happened to you, if you were doing okay and everything.”
-“Doin’ great!” he growled merrily. “I finally woke up and saw the light!”

Pete had gone through a major spiritual awakening in the past seven years it seems. He was evidently proud to tell Tara about it, since she’d been one of his major influences to motivate him to stop drinking as he put it. Tara remembered now the times she had had to turn him away when he’d showed up at her doorstep late at night too drunk to stand straight. They’d stopped seeing each other after the last time he’d showed up, so drunk he could barely make it up her stairs.

-“Really? How so? It’s not like I pressured you to stop drinking or anything” she asked.
-“Nah nah, it’s hard to explain, it was just… conversations we had in the past. We talked about so much stuff and it made me think, you know? About my priorities in life. If I hadn’t met you Tara I might have become an even bigger drunk by now.”
She made a worried face, then smiled.
-“You know what the crazy thing is? I was shocked to see you on board today cuz, I shit you not, I was jus’ mentioning you to my partner Jim over here.”

Jim was sitting in the next booth. He was also wearing his uniform. He too had removed the jacket and hat. He was wearing eyeglasses and proudly displayed a perfectly bald head. Jim smiled and nodded:
-“Yep, he sure did talk about you, just less than a week ago as a matter of fact, said he probably wouldn’t have sobered up if he hadn’t met you.”

Pete and Tara sat accross from each other at a dining table filled with his paperwork as they chatted. She told Pete about her latest projects and ideas, all very ambitious, but somehow feasible for her. “I always knew you’d be going places” he said. In his line of work, he got to meet all kinds of interesting characters and he regaled her with some anecdotes about passengers he’d spent some time with. She noticed as they were talking, that people frequently came up to their table and engaged in conversation with him, asking various questions about the itinerary, and how they continued to stand there and talking to him long after he’d given them an answer, as if they didn’t want to leave his presence. He had that kind of charisma, along with a calming presence. “A calming presence is a rare and precious find” she thought to herself.

The little girl in the pigtails and red pants made an appearance, along with her bigger sister and mother. They took a seat at the table just behind Tara and before long the girls started fooling around, shoving each other, shouting and laughing. Their mother looked tired and weary, but she looked at her girls and weakly smiled, once in a while asking them to pipe down in a low voice. Tara had brought her camera with her to the dining car, and she presently turned to the woman and smiled asking: “do you mind if I take pictures of your girls? It’s just for my own personal collection”. The woman looked uncertain. “Here, let me show you the kind of portraits I take” Tara walked over to her booth and sat next to the woman, introduced herself and started showing her various portraits an landscapes she had taken during this trip on her digital camera. “These are lovely pictures you take” the woman said, with an obvious foreign accent “if you want to photograph my girls, it’s okay.” she added. The girls hammed it up for the camera while Tara clicked away in rapid sequence. She wasn’t after a perfect shot. She just wanted to capture their energy on a still image somehow. Eventually enough the girls started whinning, and Tara knew the moment had passed. Thank you so much, Noor is it? and you too girls, you did a great job!” and with one last wink at Peter, she presently stepped out of the dining car.

As she walked back to her wagon, she noticed the train had filled up considerably during the many stops the train had made in the meantime. When she regained her seat, she found she now had an older gentleman as a traveling companion. They started making pleasant conversation. Heinrich was a retired veterinarian and spoke English, Spanish, German and French fluently. He’d been born in Germany, but his parents had moved to Argentina before the war, he said. Tara loved animals, and so they spoke about horses and dogs for a while. He seemed to be a compassionate and caring man, she noted. She couldn’t help but have a slight apprehensions about German men of Heinrich’s generation, it was imbeded in her genes, or maybe it was all that Holocaust footage she’d been shown in school as a child. Now she felt guilty for even entertaining the thought, but she wondered if Heinrich mightn’t have had a more sinister past. Such a nice man! She didn’t want to entertain the thought that she was possibly in the company of a former Nazi and she had no way of knowing for sure, so she pushed the though away for now. Heinrich was traveling with his wife Nonnie, who was sitting just behind them. Tara offered Nonnie to swap seats so the old married couple could sit together, but Heinrich’s wife smiled and said she was just fine. One or two stops later, the seat next to Nonnie was vacated and Heinrich joined his wife again. Tara was a bit sad to see him go, but the two cute as buttons French business students were still sitting on the other side of the aisle, and Tara enjoyed stealing quiet glances at them. “Dirty old woman!” She berated herself, though she looked to be no more than twenty five—if that—especially wearing her yoga clothes as she was today. The hours rolled by with the scenery. Mostly shrubs and fields and the occasional trees. 

They eventually got to the border crossing, where train Nº69 came to a full stop. Someone said it might take quite a while, and it did. The scenery outside was depressing. The sky was muted and gray and it had started to rain. There was a heavy layer of fog covering everything, and when she looked outside the right-hand window past the French students the view—even though it was plain enough—filled her with fear and dread. It was the combination of the bleak weather, the barbed wire on top of the tall fence just a few feet from the train window, and then those blocky buildings, like bunkhouses – again, those reels of Holocaust footage she’d seen as a child came back to haunt her, only this time the scenery seemed all too real. She started imagining the worst.

They waited half an hour, forty five minutes, seventy five minutes, and still, no sign of departure. They were being detained at the border.“How much longer?” the passengers asked. There was no way to tell. The air grew stale as the border patrol agents on board the train tersely questioned and searched each and every passenger. Those who looked foreign or who had an accent were brought to another section of the train for further questioning. It had been a long holiday weekend. There were more passengers than usual and it was taking much longer than normal. The snack cart was made off limits, and everyone started complaining of thirst after a while. The smokers on the train asked if they could get out to have a cigarette and were told they could not. Everyone had been waiting close to two hours now and it didn’t seem like anyone was leaving anytime soon. Tara was growing more and more anxious, in the grip of that irrational fear that they were somehow in great danger.“This could go on indefinitely. These border crossings feel like we’re entering Totalitarian regimes. I wish Pete was here to reassure us at least.” 

One of the little girls Tara had photographed started to cry. She wanted to get off the train. Her mother was trying as best she could to soothe her. One passenger who was sitting close to Tara said “we’re all going to get trombosis if they force us to just stay seated like this. And I should know ’cause I’m a nurse”. This broke the tension for a moment and gave Tara and Heinrich the vet a good chuckle. But Tara could still feel the tension rising. She could well imagine what traveling on a train in Europe must have been like during WWII. Stuck at a border crossing in no-man’s land, nobody giving the passengers information, no food, no water, not knowing what could possibly happen next… those looming bunkers outside – are those meant for us? How terrifying that must have been.

Everyone was growing more and more restless and impatient. Tara decided she needed to stay calm and set an example “All it takes is one person to make a difference.” she reminded herself. She loaned one of her magazines, a copy of Time, to a fellow passenger who was complaining loudly now. She considered starting an impromptu yoga class, but she realized there wasn’t enough room and most people didn’t look like they were wanting to do yoga besides. She didn’t want to make a display of herself, but she needed to do something, to prevent the mounting anxiety from getting the better of her. After deliberating a little, she got over her reservations, stepped out into a vacant spot in the aisle and started doing some yoga postures—a slow series of sun salutations. She needed to keep moving and she needed to stay calm. Some passengers looked on curiously, but nobody seemed to mind. Progressively, as she let herself fall into the now familiar sequence of movement, she started to enjoy herself and get over the irrationional fear that they’d entered the twilight zone, or that history was about to repeat itself.

A woman from customs suddenly appeared in the wagon. She was wearing her uniform, blue slacks that were a little bit on the short side and fit too tightly on her generous frame, and a blue shirt, also tight fitting and gaping a little in the front. She had frizzy hair. She could have been pretty, but her facial expression and the energy she emanated were too unplesant for that. Tara noticed all this with distaste “she should try smiling once in a while” she thought to herself. The customs agent opened her mouth and shouted: EVERYONE MUST REGAIN THEIR SEATS!”

Tara didn’t like customs agents very much and now this one as if right on cue, turned to Tara brusquely and snapped: “YOU, you need to regain your seat RIGHT NOW, you’re causing trouble.”“WHAT?!?!? NOT ALLOWED TO DO YOGA?!? How ridiculous is that???” Tara cried, confused and suddenly very agitated. To her horror, all the anxiety she’d been trying so hard to hold back burst forth and she lost control. She started shaking and blabbering. She called the customs woman a fascist and then, upset that she’d let that word escape her mouth, she said it again and then started calling the customs official all kinds of other names, as if she’d suddenly developed a case of Tourettes. She knew she should keep her mouth shut, but she simply couldn’t stop herself now, and nearly every sentence uttered in rapid hiccuping staccato was punctuated with insults. “I have. a medical. condition. You fascist. I’m prone. to saying. things. that’ll get me. in trouble. You fascist cow. This. condition. gets worse. if I’m. prevented. from doing. my yoga. You tyrant. Yoga calms me. it’s been. recommended. by my. doctor. You duce. Now you’ve gotten. me so. upset. I don’t. know what. I’m saying. Anymore. You fat fucking fuck.” The customs officer seemed impervious to the onslaught. She just shrugged and said “I have nothing to do with it, I’m just the messenger. The train conductors said you were blocking the passage and they couldn’t circulate, so they sent me. Tara knew this was a blatant lie. There had been no sign of a railroad employee since they had stopped and besides, she knew Pete would never have sent a litte toy soldier like that. He would have come himself and asked nicely, and most probably with a smile.

The other passengers suddenly spoke up to come to Tara’s defence “Let her do her yoga! She wasn’t disturbing anyone, why should she NOT be allowed to do her yoga?? “ Tara appreciated their show of support, but she was embarrassed now. She hadn’t meant to cause so much fuss and lose her cool like that. Of course she’d wanted to assert her freedom, but she’d tried to do it in the most calm way she knew how. And now she’d made a mess of it. She knew she could get in big trouble for all the things she’d said. Ignoring the customs lady now, he clambered back into her seat put on her earphones to listen to music and block out whatever was going on while flicking through a magazine. The customs agent was standing next to her, trying to justify herself now to the other passengers. She tried to reason with Tara also, but Tara, keeping her earphones and the volumes on simply said: “I’m not well, I need to calm down now. Please leave me alone.” The customs woman left. There’d be no restraints and no psychiatric ward for Tara’s little performance today it seemed. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Eventually Pete appeared, bringing small water bottles for everyone, along with some news. Something to do with the fact that certain passengers hadn’t brought papers and had a suspicious story that needed verification. “We’ll all be on our way soon enough” he told them. Again, he beamed at Tara before returning to his duties. And sure enough, after a little while, Train Nº69 was on it’s way to Montreal again. It had been a very long day and they still had a couple of hours of traveling ahead of them, but the worst of it was over. When they finally arrived to destination, Tara bumped into Pete again at the taxi stand. He’d scribbled his mobile number on a piece of paper and presently handed it to her telling her she should call him “anytime”. But that night, more than anything, Tara felt lucky to be back in the peace and quiet of her own home.

Photos by Smiler

Value Your Own Wisdom

Posted on by
Reply

Adapted from a DailyOm article, from October 10, 2007

The Truths Within
Throughout our lives, we encounter individuals who presume to know what’s best for us. But the insights they offer can’t compare with the powers of awareness and discernment that already exist within us. From birth, we’re blessed with wisdom that can’t be learned or unlearned. It exists whether or not we acknowledge it because it’s a gift given to us by a loving universe before we chose to experience existence on the earthly plane. Yet for all its permanence, it is vital that we value and honor this incredible element of the self. When we don’t use our inborn wisdom, we begin to doubt our personal truths. When we recognize the power of our heart’s wisdom, we discover how intensely beautiful and useful self-trust can be .

Inner wisdom isn’t subject to the influences of the outside world, which means that it will never demand that we surrender our free will or act in opposition to our values. We’re amply qualified to determine our own fate, and our inner wisdom is the source of our discernment and ability to identify blessings in disguise. When we’re unsure of who to trust, how to respond or what we require, our inner wisdom knows where we’re going and where we’re coming from. Taking this into account isn’t a product of experience but rather part of our connection to the universal mind.

Aurora, Stars, Meteor, Lake, Alaska
Credit & Copyright: Bud Kuenzli

"Riposa in Pace"

Posted on by
Reply

A short story by Smiler

It was morning. She wrote. she wrote some more. And then again. She edited. And then she edited again. And then she contacted a couple of friends to see if one of them would go run with her. They were busy with other things. Fair enough. She went by herself and ran for eighty minutes. She couldn’t have run that long if someone else had come along.

The mountain was about twenty minutes from her apartment, uphill from begining to end. Because she was feeling tired and weary that day, she didn’t make a goal of it to actually get to the mountain. She figured running towards it was a good enough job for the day.

When the hills were too steep, she walked. She got up top, to Beaver Lake. She ran along the grassy knolls that surround it. She found it pretty there. Not gorgeous. Nice. Nice enough. There was hardly anyone at that hour, and it was cold besides. There was a very happy dog running around with a friendly looking old man stood there [sic] looking at him and smiling, and she played with him a little. The dog that is—she just smiled and said hello to the old man, since he didn’t look like he was about to start hopping around like an idiot the way she was doing with his dog. The dog played along. The old man smiled back at her and said That dog certainly is full of life. Yes, he certainly was.

She found an old tree she liked, and she leaned on it to unwind her legs and do a few yoga stretches. It wasn’t a big tree. It had obviously been beaten up by the elements. There were lots of branches missing. And still, there were tender fresh new leaves all over it. It’s misshapened, poor thing. But we understand each other she thought to herself. She pushed against it, and she imagined it pushing back againt her too, and she was quite sure she felt they were exchanging energy. Something like that.

She was inspired to do a handstand. But she needed more support and her present companion wasn’t up to the task. She found a great big oak tree with a very large trunk. It was a good tree. A strong tree. She knew it could support her fumbling attempts at doing a handstand unflinchingly, and not let her down. It didn’t. She felt happy as she looked at the world upside down, even if for just a short while. A great change of perspective indeed. Good to get the blood flowing to the brain when you use it as darn much as I do, she thought. Her arms were strong and they held her up just fine, but she’d need more practice to stay up there for longer bouts. I’ll just keep practicing she said to no one in particular.

She felt a special connection to trees somehow. That’s what her name meant: tree. But it was a foreign and strange sounding name, so kids would to tease her about it relentlessly. She didn’t mind now. Tree hugger indeed she thought, smiling to herself.

She decided to continue her run through the cemetery. Grand Maman Margot was burried here, though she wasn’t sure where exactly. Mère-Grand, she called her in French sometimes. She felt her presence still. She liked to honour her memory whenever she got a chance. Margot is short for Marguerite, which means Daisy in English, so she’d been buying daisies every week. Granny flowers. She sometimes made sure to let the florist know that they were actually meant for her grandmother. They didn’t need to know she’s passed away long ago, did they? And besides, she figured they’d understand even if they did know. Florists must hear all kinds strange stories.

There was a beautiful cemetery near the ocean in Bronte, Australia, where she’d jogged while visiting there. She’d had qualms about disrespecting the dead, but those were appeased when she saw several runners running on the path by the tombstoes when she’d gone on her initial walk to take in the sights. After that experience, she felt quite sure the departed enjoyed getting visitors – even if only the occasional joggers. So on this day, running on the montain, she though it might bring her some measure of peace and comfort to go running though Mount-Royal cemetery, where her beloved Gand-Maman Marguerite was burried. She had fond memories of going to visit her after class at Victoria School, playing cards with her, eating Pringles chips. How old was I then? Seven or eight maybe? she wondered. Granny always wore a dress. Always seemed well put together. Was always kind and gentle with her grand-daughter. Or at least that’s how she liked to remember her. When she got Margot her daisies, she always make sure to put them in Mère-Grand’s painted ceramic pitcher, imported from Italy, way back when.

From a distance, when she started nearing the cemetery, she saw a bunch of multicoloured stickers with bad typography stuck haphazardly all over the entrance gates. She hesitate to go in. This was not her idea of a peaceful run in a lovely setting. She reached the entrance gates: “on strike” the stickers read. The cemetery itself was filthy. There were plastic bags and newspapers strewn all over the place. It saddened her to see how very little respect we have for the dead. “But then again, we have so very little respect for the living nowadays, why should we be bothered once they’ve gone to another place? Why bover? Right?”. She joked to herself to push away the indignation she felt.

She continued running along nonetheless. Don’t let it bover you kiddo, She thought to herself. Grand Maman is here. She’ll be glad that you’ve dropped by for a visit. She had good upbeat music playing on her iPod. She focused on that. She noticed a huge section with tombstones that were especially glitzy. Black granite no doubt, all done up with golden lettering. Cyrillic. A russian section. She hadn’t realized the russians had taken over such a big section of the cemetery that way. She hadn’t realized there was such a big russian population in Montreal to begin with. Are they mostly living or mostly dead? she couldn’t help but ask herself. That thought makes her chuckle for some reason. She had a morbid sense of humour, that’s for sure.

As she continued running and gazing at the tombstones, she wondered just how “beloved” some of those dearly departed husbands and wives had been while they were still living. Does the size and quality of the tombstones have anything to do with the love and appreciation the bodies burried beneath them had received while they were alive? or with the legacy they’ve left behind for that matter? She wondered. Of course not. Sometimes… diametrically opposed, I would suspect,

Was Mozart’s carcass not just tossed into a communal ditch? One of the greatest composers that ever lived. All those treasures he’s left behind; 600 compositions… with works widely acknowledged as pinnacles of symphonic, concertante, chamber, piano, operatic, and choral music… Considered among the most enduringly popular of European composers… Many of his works part of the standard concert repertoire… Considered to be one of the greatest composers of classical music. etc, etc… “He was not buried in a “mass grave” for paupers but in a regular communal [unmarked] grave according to the 1784 laws in Austria.” She’d read somewhere. That was so terribly reassuring. Terrible, mostly. Once we’ve used up the bodies, we just toss them aside. Oh Wolfgang… the injustice of it. They should be ashamed of themselves. Still, she continued running to the beats of the electronic music blaring into her skull. The Crystal Method. A running track done for Nike. Purchased on iTunes. It was a good one. Not great. Good. It prompted her along, helped her push further on, and that was all that was required at that moment.

As she started making her way out of the cemetery, she saw some words chiseled into granite steps. She backtracked to have a closer look. “Riposa in Pace” it said . Keep that one in mind, She thought, That’s quite beautiful. Italian I think. I might want to use that somewhere. “Riposa in Pace”. Am I allowed to rest in peace while I’m still living? She was tempted to ask aloud. Tempted to scream actually. But she didn’t. She just continued running along.

She kept running. She was tired now. Very tired. Depleted. Thirsty. But she needed to make her way back home. Needed to feed herself. One option was to take some of the cash she always carried “in case of emegency” and take a bus or taxi ride home. But that was out of the question today. May as well make the end of the run a pleasant one she decided. I’m fine. I have enough energy to carry me home. She pushed on. It was all downhill from there anyway, easy enough. She took the large winding path down the mountain, down Pine Avenue. She liked Pine avenue. She always asked taxi drivers to take that route to bring her home when she finished late at the office. It was so stately. There was a nice view of the city on the left, and the mountain to the right.

She saw a few other joggers running towards her. Everybody had their music on. Some of them nodded and smiled back at her. Mostly they didn’t take notice. Focused on their own run. That’s fine, I do that too a lot of the time. They’re in the zone It occured to her: “how many of those runners feel as badly as I do right now? And how many people must think we’ve got it all together because we LOOK like we’ve got it together? Because we LOOK like we know exactly where we’re going. This time. Today, I actually do, but not always. Right now, I’m making my back to my apartment. Simple enough.”

It felt colder outside. She pressed on. The Crystal Method mix was getting more and more upbeat now. She was tempted to start sprinting, but there was a good fifteen, twenty minutes to go still, so she increased the speed a little, but she made sure to pace herself. She went down Dr. Penfield. Ran past the dog park. She made a mental note to go have a walk there with her camera sometime. Just hang out with the dogs for a while.

She continued running. She started sprinting in short spurts. Getting hungry. Getting thirsty. Made her way down Sherbrooke. She loved Sherbrooke street. Perfect to run along with those extra wide sidewalks like the ones in New York City she tought. She started feeling… the loneliness crashing in again, here in this most familiar setting, so close to home. How many times have I walked here… alone? How many taxis and buses have I ridden in… alone? And that car door I slammed… was it just a year ago now? Ugh. Was better to just slam that door and walk away in the pouring rain. He wasn’t worth the trouble. Lonely or not.

She was nearing that pretty little parc now, close to Dawson College. The same college where that shooting had occured the previous year. But that’s not what she remembered it by. She remember her days as a student there. And all the doors that opened up for her before she’d even graduated. Now still even.

She made her way down Elm street. So pretty. So British. She decided to end her run there. She wanted to go pick up a few things at the local grocery store. She didn’t want to go inside sweaty and short of breath. Wouldn’t do to show up in that state. We are in Westmount after all. Elm… She saw a triplex up for sale. The brick was… not a very nice colour. Too dark. But otherwise it looked like a very good building from the outside. Solid. Respectable. I’d just paint the brick white and it would look great, if only I could afford it, she thought to herself.

She was getting close to De Maisonneuve now, right by the grocery store. She decided… give yourself a hundred meters, then go for your last sprint. That’s what she liked to do. Always keep a little for that last push. That was the fun part. When she could finally let her legs do what they did best, pound hard against the pavement, launch her forward, propel her into the air. It was almost like flying. Almost. Only not.

Someday… I too will fly. But for now… I must stay grounded. I will rest in peace while I’m still among the living. Riposa in Pace.

How do you say "wheel" in Sanskrit?

Posted on by
Reply

I mentioned in my last post on chakras that I had more material coming soon, and I most certainly do. As a matter of fact, I have too much stuff, and it’s all a bit overwhelming. I’ve got reams and reams of notes from various sources which I need to synthesise before presenting it here, and I haven’t quite got my homework done yet, but do know it’s coming up in the near future.

I’m not quite sure why it’s taking me so long to get to this particular topic. Might have something to do with the fact that it’s taken me so very long to open up to the whole notion of practicing yoga beyond the asanas (or postures), but it’s probably linked to the guilt I’m feeling these days when I so much as mention the word “yoga” because I’ve been neglecting my practice. This in turn makes me feel like I don’t have a right to be teaching anything to do with yoga if I’m not practicing it daily myself. “Preach what you practice” is one of my motos… but then again maybe if I talk about it enough I’ll motivate myself to get back into it? That would be nice. As Shankara, one of my yoga teachers would say, right now I’m practicing the yoga of letting go of guilt. Or something like that.

In any case, if you’re NOT interested in finding out more on chakras, that’s cool too, there’s plenty of material on this blog, and you can use my new labels or the search engine on the very top of the page, and who knows what you’re likely to find?

If you ARE curious about finding out a little more, here’s a helpful drawing representing the placement of the chakras, along with a chart which gives a good at-a-glance description of the chakras. I really like the design and how they’ve interpreted the symbols, but do know they look nothing like the original symbols representing the seven chakras (something else I’m working on getting together for you, kind reader). I found both the drawing and chart from this site and I’m sure if you traipse around there, you’ll find all kinds of neat stuff to while the time away with.


If you can’t see the chakra description chart properly here, click on this link to download the pdf version.

Mending A Broken Heart

Posted on by
Reply

Stronger For It
Mending A Broken Heart
DailyOm , October 4, 2007

Heartbreak happens to all of us and can wash over us like a heavy rain. When experiencing a broken heart, our ethereal selves are saturated with grief, and the overflow is channeled into the physical body. Loss becomes a physical emptiness, and longing is transmuted into a feeling that often cannot be put into words. Mending a broken heart can seem a task so monumental that we dare not attempt it for fear of damaging ourselves further. But heartbreak, like all emotions, falls under the spell of our conscious influence.

Often the pain that wounds us most deeply also leaves the most enduring mark upon us. The shock that becomes the tender, throbbing ache of the heart eventually leads us down the path of enlightenment, blessing our lives with a new depth and richness.

Acknowledging heartbreak’s impermanence by no means dulls its sting for it is the sting itself that stimulates healing. The pain is letting us know that we need to pay attention to our emotional selves, to sit with our feelings and be in them fully before we can begin to heal. It is said that time heals all wounds. Time may dull the pain of a broken heart, but it is fully feeling your pain and acknowledging it that will truly help you heal. Dealing with your heartache in a healthy way rather than putting it off for tomorrow is the key to repair. Gentleness more than anything else is called for. Most important, open yourself to the possibility of loving, trusting, and believing again. When, someday soon, you emerge from the cushion of your grief, you will see that the universe did not cease to be as you nursed your broken heart. You emerge on the other side of the mending, stronger for all you have experienced.

Chakra art

Posted on by
Reply

It was only a matter of time before I started getting into all that. Yes folks, I’m talking chakras. I’ve been doing yoga for more than thirty years now so it’s quite amazing I hadn’t taken interest in chakras sooner. My excuse? I had never really been into with the spiritual aspect of yoga – maybe early exposure as a toddler to ashrams… with all that chanting and those weird looking deities and blissed out faces all around put me off. So up till a few years ago, yoga had only been a means to stay in shape, period. The “other” stuff, all that spiritual new agey hocus pocus stuff (ironic to call it new agey considering yoga has been around more than five thousand years!) well I wouldn’t hear of it.

So why now? How come the sudden interest in all things spiritual and chakras in particular Smiler? you might ask.

It’s been a very gradual thing over many years, but lately, with so much time on my hands and so very little energy to run around, I guess I was bound to delve into matters to do with the larger question of the universe and what moves us and so on (to put it in ridiculously simple terms). And that’s where the chakras come in.

But I don’t want to overwhelm anyone with all of this. So for now, I’m just showing you these two pieces of artwork, which are called Chakra Art. I can’t tell you the name of the artist because that info doesn’t seem to be available, but I CAN give you the site where I found them: http://www.artoriginals.co.uk/. By all means knock yourself out over there, goodies abound! More to follow on chakras soon enough.